The Ghost's Apprentice
by GlassAquarius
Summary: My only goal is to survive. And if that means becoming a player in an increasingly dangerous game, then so be it. Modern day.
1. How the Coyotes Howl

**Author's Note: Erik and Christine do not belong to me (insert melodramatic sigh). Anything you don't recognize belongs to me. This story will be mixing elements of Leroux, Webber, and Kay.**

March

"_I don't embrace trouble…but I do say meet it as a friend, for you'll see a lot of it and had better be on speaking terms with it."_ – Oliver Wendell Holmes

Maddox's Home for the Mentally Ill- or just Maddox, as it's usually called- was once widely regarded as the country's foremost psychiatric institution. It was the place where the prominent wealthy stored their embarrassing secrets, and those secrets just happened to be people.

On the surface, it seemed quite nice; gleaming mahogany floors and Persian rugs. The staff was friendly, cheerful, and knowledgeable. Respectability oozed from the flowered wallpaper. If you had to abandon your loved one to an asylum, this would be your first choice.

Of course, I wasn't here _then_. This is information I've gathered in the past month or so. Some of it is gossip, so it may be unreliable. It _was _almost half a century ago, after all.

But everyone agrees that there was something very, very wrong at Maddox. Many patients had babbled for years, even decades, about shocks and lights and knives, but the words of a lunatic weren't worth much. And finally, someone took the inmates seriously: a reporter, hoping to get that legendary Big Story, did some investigating. As his questions became more and more accusatory, the doctors refused to answer them and even barred him from the property. But nothing stands in the way of an amateur journalist and his Big Story! One can only suppose that some rather illegal things happened after that, because the reporter got his exposé. GRUESOME EXPERIMENTS AT MADDOX, the newspapers proclaimed. FEDERAL INVESTIGATION PENDING.

But the federal investigation never happened. Nothing happened. Everyone- the inmates, the doctors, the staff- just left for the day and never came back. Most of the doctors disappeared without a trace. Dusty jackets still lay haphazardly on chairs. Potted plants were left to die. And most bizarrely of all, a Christmas tree still stands in one of the offices, though the calendar clearly indicates that it was August at the time.

Most conveniently, all records of the experiments are gone, presumably burned. Not that I expected differently; such a thorough cleanup would not have neglected the most damning evidence. All other documents have remained, however- case notes, journals, even unpaid bills are all still here and mostly legible (a few pages have been destroyed by the moths and rats).

One doctor in particular has captured my attention: a Miss Sarah Walker. Sarah's notes and diary are missing pages, so she was obviously involved in the experiments, though her motives seem to be innocent. In some twisted way, she believed that she was helping her charges. She wrote:

_Belmont is becoming increasingly hostile and irrational. His newest delusion is that he is a holy warrior sent by God to purify the Earth before the Second Coming. He claims to hear angelic voices and believes he has the power to exorcise demons. We had only been talking for a few minutes when he decided I needed salvation, which apparently comes in the form of murder by a sharpened toothbrush. Thankfully, the guards sedated him before any damage was done. If Prometheus succeeds, he could be cured. He could return home to his family and live normally, and cease to be a shadow of the man he once was! _

Prometheus- the Greek Titan that stole fire from the gods and gave it to man. What a pretentious name for such sadism.

Dr. Walker lacked the coldness necessary to be Prometheus's architect; she was only the tool to carry it out. By all accounts, she was extremely intelligent and dedicated to helping others, if a bit naïve. She had just graduated when she came to Maddox. But as a woman in a man's world, she must have fought very hard to get to where she was. At times she had a certain firmness – still kind, still Sarah, but a Sarah that stood her ground.

The ancient recorder whirs and clicks. I'm surprised that it still works.

_Patient Interview #14 with Felicia Patrick. She remains as uncooperative and infuriating as ever. It is becoming more and more difficult to keep my temper in check. I think she's trying to prove something._

A knock on the door and another voice, a guard perhaps. _"Hey, missy."_ Was she always being reminded that she was a woman? _"I've got your gal-pal here."_

_ "Oh, right. Show her in." _The door opens. _"Hello, Felicia."_

_ "Hello, Sarah."_

_ "We've gone over this, Felicia." _Assertive, slightly exasperated. _"You are to call me Doctor Walker, or just Doctor."_

Felicia is undeterred. She barrels on coolly and logically._ "I fail to see why that matters, Sarah. That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." _Felicia had a penchant for quoting Shakespeare.

_"It's just courteous."_

_ "But it's your name. How could that be offensive?"_

Sarah takes control. _"We'll talk about it another time. We are here to talk about __you__, Felicia."_

_ "There' s not much to say. My social life is dead because this creepy place scares off all my boyfriends."_

_ "Creepy? How so?"_

_ "It's nothing exact. Just the way the moon seems so big and how the coyotes howl and all the ghost stories. This place just has a bad aura. Haven't you noticed?"_

_ "No."_

_ "Well, I have." _Felicia liked talking about herself. _"Every place has an aura, you know. This area, Houten, generally has a good aura. Green, growing, life. But here in Maddox, the aura is black. Dark, evil."_

_"I don't understand. Why do you say that the aura here is black?"_

_ "I don't know, Sarah. Perhaps you can tell me."_

With one last click, the tape ends.

Did Felicia know what was going one? It's possible. She was supposedly very intelligent, a genius. But despite her cleverness, she could be so fanciful sometimes. Auras. What nonsense.

The 'ghost stories'. She was probably referring to the legend of Wematin Road.

The streets here are uncompromisingly long and winding, originally built for horses rather than sports utility vehicles, and Wematin Road is the longest, narrowest, and mistiest of them all. Most of the locals believe it to be haunted.

Hundreds of years ago, the Dutch colonized this place and lived with the nearby tribe in relative harmony. The chief had several beautiful wives, and he was very jealous and possessive of all of them. However, one of the farmers fell in love with and subsequently kidnapped the chief's favorite. The chief and the farmer dueled, supposedly on that very road, and the farmer won. It is now widely believed that his ghost prowls there on nights when the fog is thick, forever searching for his beloved.

God, people are stupid.

I couldn't have picked a better place- an abandoned asylum on a haunted road in a town brimming with superstition. Much quieter than Paris, and much more suited to my needs.

Monsieur Giordano will be arriving soon. He is always on time. Always.

I rise out of the plush armchair and gaze around my latest living quarters. When I arrived, it was mouldy, dusty, and filled with spiders- not that I mind spiders; I'm actually quite fond of them. I did some cleaning, dragged some of the least decrepit furniture here, and _voilà_. The attic now resembles a comfortable bedroom. _Resembles_, mind, not _is_. One can only accomplish so much on a budget of zero.

I sidestep the various creatures inhabit Maddox- mice, rats, insects, and the tabby cat. She watches me with large yellow eyes.

"I don't have anything for you," I say. She follows me anyway, tail swishing from side to side. We walk past peeling wallpaper and frayed carpets. The visitor center, where I have been staying, is not exactly Buckingham Palace, but it's better than the patients' ward.

When Christine unmasked me during Don Juan Triumphant, she confirmed what I already knew: I can never be a normal man. I can never make an honest living. I should have remained a ghost.

Oh, Christine! Beautiful, dear Christine! Why? _Why?_ Why did you do that to me? Did I frighten you? I must have. Looking back on my actions, I can truly say I was half mad, if not wholly so. What was I thinking? I could not have kept you in the dark, you're afraid of it! You surely would have died, just as the lily perishes without sunlight! Oh, I was a fool, a terrible fool.

I cannot hope to ever obtain her forgiveness. I do not deserve it. But I would like her to know that I am not angry with her. I want to tell her that, if she ever needs him, her teacher will help her in any way he can. But every time I sit down, pen in hand, I cannot do it. I cannot bear to intrude upon my angel's life again. I cannot trust myself. One thing will lead to another, and another and another!

_And perhaps_, my diseased conscience wheezes, _the right thing is to leave her. Don't ruin her new life, with her Prince Charming and country house with a white picket fence, with her pretty clothes and her pretty friends. _

_ Let her be_.

Perhaps I can apologize one day, but not now. Both our wounds are far too fresh, and I will not allow myself to destroy her a second time.

I would have become a real ghost if I stayed at the Opéra Populaire, so I did the only sensible thing and left. I certainly couldn't stay in Paris, or even in Europe. I was too recognizable. I fled across the ocean to this wretched little nowhere and found it perfect.

At first it was just a place to hide and lick my wounds. But it became much, much more when I discovered that they were planning to convert one of these old wrecks into a concert hall. A concert hall! I don't believe in God, but that certainly tested my atheism.

…M. Giordano is not just on time, it seems. He is early, and I wish I could clap my hands over my ears. The little fool carries the local accent. Whenever he says a word with an "aw" sound, it is ridiculously exaggerated. _Coffee _becomes _cawfee_, _moth _becomes _mawth_, and so on. He sounds like a crow! But since M. Giordano occasionally says something of importance, I must listen.

The building's electricity was shut off decades ago, and I doubt most of the fixtures are working. I skulk in the shadows above Giordano and his contractor, by the twin staircases, where there's a balcony of sorts.

Giordano is not alone. Another man's voice floats upward.

"I've heard ya've got ambitious plans for this place."

"Oh, yes sir. The village is growing exponentially. A source of entertainment has been lawng overdue."

"You're not worried it'll fail, then?"

"Why would it?...Oh, you mean because people say it's haunted?"

"Well, yeah. If there's anywhere that's cursed, it's here, don't ya think?"

"I don't know, hawnestly. But I'm not going to let it get in the way of this prawject."

That's what he thinks.

"Maybe not, but people won't come to a haunted concert hall."

"Of course they would. Nothing sells like scandal." Ah, the boy has a brain after all. Who knew?

"I s'pose that's true."

"Anyway," Giordano's voice becomes excited. "I want to show you what I'm going to do with this hawll. We're going to keep most of the original structure- it's Victorian, you know. The biggest part is the left staircase…well, left from the entranceway. The broken one, you know what I mean…" The granite staircase to my right has several large cracks. Only a fool would attempt to travel it. "We're going to knawck it down and rebuild it. The other one is fine, it's been checked. Gawd, inspectors are irritating. Necessary, though. Can't have staircases collapsing on us."

The other man hurriedly jots down notes.

"The lights and window panes will have to be replaced. Kids. I don't understand- why would you destroy something so beautiful?"

"They're kids, they get bored 'n' decide to come in here 'n' drink or get high or somethin'. Not even the cawps'll follow them here."

"What? Is that really true?"

"Yep. My godson 'n' his buddies snuck in here 'bout a year ago with some pot, 'n' when they came out the police was waitin' for 'em."

Giordano is quiet. Perhaps he doesn't like the idea of being so vulnerable.

The rest of their conversation is useless. Giordano prattles about velvet drapes and building codes. His friend scribbles in his notepad. But for that entire afternoon, one phrase reverberates in my mind:

_Nothing sells like scandal_.

**Please review! And if anyone has trouble deciphering Houten-speak, let me know and I'll provide a handy-dandy translation guide at the end of each chapter!**


	2. The Power of Antonio

"_Fear makes the wolf bigger than he is."_

_German Proverb_

oOo

March

Sophie

"This was stupid," I complain, holding a crimson hoodie over my head. Fat, lazy raindrops splash onto it. "Whose idea was this, anyway?" The five of us- me, Leah, Antonio, Johnny, and Devon- are tromping in the woods because one of the boys heard Maddox has a morgue with all the dead bodies still in it, and naturally, we have to investigate.

The forest is cool and drowsy. The occasional bird twitters and chipmunks scurry inside logs as we approach. Every so often I rub my eyes, then realize the fog is not related to my vision. I should be at home, snoozing with my pit bull Orry.

Johnny points to his left with a dark, thin finger. "Antonio's."

"Why do ya gotta do this stuff, Tony? First ya drag me outta bed on a Saturday, 'n' then ya make it rain," I mock-accuse.

"Wanna start, Sophie? Ya wanna start? Ya wanna take it outside?" Tony puts 'em up and jabs playfully. His curly auburn hair is plastered to his head.

"We're already outside," Johnny interrupts.

"Whatever," Devon says. I think it's the first time she's spoken in a month. "It's still a dumb idea."

"Well, too late," Antonio says. "We're almost there, 'n' it's not gonna stop rainin'." His cell phone rings and he swears. "Make noises like yer studyin'." We're not quite the angels our parents think we are. He picks up. "Hi, Mom."

We begin orchestrating the loudest studying session ever.

"What's the answer to number thirty-eight?"

"Work equals force times displacement!"

"Four popes died durin' sex!"

Antonio glares at me. While true, that fact might not sit well with his very Catholic mother.

oOo

I met Antonio when I was six. While playing in the woods, I saw a large golden retriever that didn't look so good. He was walking strangely and had foam around his mouth like toothpaste.

He was obviously rabid, but the average first-grader wouldn't know that. All I knew was that he looked like he was feeling real bad and I wanted to help him feel better. I stood there next to an apple tree fragrant with springtime blooms and watched him stagger pathetically. _Here doggie_, I had said. _It's okay. Come here_.

Bad, bad move. The dog regained his senses and suddenly charged me. I scrambled up the apple tree. I stayed up there for the entire afternoon, while he just sat there and watched me. By five o'clock, I was tired, hungry, sunburned, and most of all thirsty. While dozing against a branch, I suddenly heard a noise like a firecracker- Salvatore Cassano's hunting rifle. He then coaxed me down and brought me to his house to rest while he called my parents. On the way there, he told me not to be angry at the dog for what he had done, that the dog was sick and probably so confused that he didn't know which way was up. He was probably once a good dog, Sal said, and he wouldn't ever try to hurt someone if he wasn't so messed up. It wasn't his fault.

The sight of the retriever's body had frightened me, but I seemed to be scared separately from everything else. It was like I was cut off from the fear- I knew it was there, but I couldn't feel it.

oOo

"What, Mom? Oh, no, we're just talkin' about a- a question. That's all...yeah, Mom…yeah, I'll be home for dinner." He hangs up.

"What are you guys havin'?" asks Johnny.

"Not sure, but I think it's got leftover diavolo sauce."

"Does that have rabbit in it?" The Cassanos once invited Johnny to dinner, and he hasn't yet recovered. They told him it was chicken at first.

"No."

"Maybe I'll drop by."

The rain picks up as we start traveling the last big hill behind Maddox. Thunder crackles in the distance- unusual for this time of year- and the tall, spindly locust trees sway dangerously in the howling wind. The temperature drops as the leaves leftover from autumn turn into a rotting, muddy mess. We sprint for the crumbling buildings.

I've always thought Maddox was pretty, and when I was little I couldn't figure out why they were empty. Now I know. There's _books _written on it, like The Most Haunted Place in America. Entire books written on these aging ruins we pass by every day.

It's our claim to fame, I guess.

The police don't even bother to stop kids from breaking in anymore. They've given up. We walk the perimeter of the nearest building until we find a broken window.

It's colder in here than outside, but it's dry. Isn't a chill a sign that there's a ghost around?

We've entered an office. There's the usual desk-and-chair setup, accompanied by a large fern carcass (complete with terracotta pot) and…a Christmas tree?

_What?_

It's plastic and possibly white underneath the dust. Tinsel and fake popcorn chains hang dejectedly, like they spent all this time waiting for somebody, anybody. We all just stare at it for a minute, trying to decide if it's real or not.

"Hey," says Leah. "Is that a Christmas tree, or am I hallucinating?"

"It's there," I replied. "Unless we're both hallucinatin'. But I don't remember puttin' acid in my cereal this mornin'."

Johnny strides toward it and solemnly wipes a gray branch. White as the day it was bought.

"This is officially creepy," says Antonio.

"Yeah," agrees Johnny.

"Definitely," Leah chimes in.

"Well, come awn, guys," Antonio starts. "That morgue ain't gonna find itself."

"Are we sure we even wanna find it?" I ask. It seemed like a bad idea before, but now it seems like an even worse idea. If the bodies are still there, that mean's they're decomposing. Decomposing means maggots. Maggots are _disgusting_.

"Yep. Now, let's go." We follow reluctantly, though I don't think anyone (except maybe Johnny) wants to now that we're actually here. Such is the power of Antonio.

We leave the office and continue down a long, dark hallway. The decaying carpet muffles our footsteps. I turn around every few steps to make sure we're not being followed. It feels like something is watching us, something not quite human.

"What do you keep doin' that for?" Devon snaps, her voice high with fear.

"Makin' sure there's nothin' behind us."

"What would be behind us?" Johnny questions coolly.

"I dunno…somethin'. Don't ya feel it?"

"Feel _what_?" Devon practically shrieks. I resist the temptation to hit her.

Something shifts in the darkness. I scan the shadows for more movement, but find nothing. I resolve to watch very carefully for the rest of the time we're here.

"Nothin'," I mutter sullenly.

I'm just nervous, that's all. Spooked. I'm getting so worked up that I'm seeing things.

"I don't believe in ghosts anyway," Antonio declares.

"Maybe you shouldn't say that," I remark. "It'll piss 'em off." I don't know whether I believe in ghosts or not.

"Stuff that ain't real can't get pissed."

"But you don't know they're not real. Not for sure."

"Yeah, I do."

Leah cuts in. "How?"

"There's nothin' that proves they are."

"But there's nothin' that proves they aren't," Devon says. She's awfully chatty today.

"Doesn't matter," Johnny replies. "Burden of proof. If somethin' can't be proven, it's not true, or real."

We all think on this for a minute, and then Devon says, "Whatever".

We inspect the sitting room. It's spacious and must have once been luxurious. The floorboards are creaky, but have no water or termite damage and seem sturdy. A large black-and-white photograph is framed on the wall. It's of Maddox, maybe a hundred years ago.

Photo-Maddox stands tall and proud above a manicured lawn, doors freshly painted and windows shiny. The flowerbeds are filled with tulips and daffodils instead of nettles and poison ivy. The bricks are scrubbed clean. But the general feeling of _something isn't right here _remains.

To the right are photographs of smiling patients, probably to reassure those interring relatives that they were doing The Right Thing. I wonder what they had to do to get the prisoners to smile. I've never been in the wards, but I know people who have. They say it's not a pleasant place.

Antonio flops dramatically onto a settee. Johnny also sits and takes two Cokes out of his backpack, which the boys sip laconically. Leah, Devon, and I perch on a sofa across from them. We are offered sodas but we don't take them. It's too early for that much sugar.

Leah frowns slightly. "Why are we stopping?"

"Cause this is more fun than gettin' lost," Antonio answers. We don't know where we're goin'."

He's right. We really should have developed more of a plan than "walk around Maddox and hope we find a bunch of corpses". There's seven buildings total, and we don't even know where to begin searching.

"We should keep going," Leah insists. _This is weird_, I think. Leah Zhu isn't the thrill-seeking type. From the time she moved here from Baltimore seven years ago, she's been the picture of elegance, soft and sweet and refined. Even now, at nine in the morning, her smooth black hair is pulled into a chignon and she wears delicate golden earrings.

"You guys can. We're not," says Antonio. "We like it here just fine."

Leah turns to me with puppy-dog eyes. "Please?"

"No."

"Please?"

"No. They're right. We have no idea where it'd be."

"What's with the sudden role reversal? You're usually the one who wants to do something wild and crazy."

"That's when doing somethin' wild 'n' crazy would be funny. This is just stupid. Besides, maggots are gross."

"There's no way there's still maggots. They'd have eaten all the rotting flesh by now."

"Thanks. That makes me feel so much better."

"Please."

Leah doesn't get a hold on something often, but she's implacable when she does. I roll my eyes. "Okay, okay. You win. Let's go."

What have I done?

The three of us rise from the sofa and exit the way we came. The thundershower is gone, and the air smells like wet earth.

"Alright," Leah says. "A morgue would be in the hospital, correct?"

I fidget. "Correct."

It turns out that the hospital is the building farthest from the Visitor's Center. Of course. The front door has been completely removed, leaving only the hinges.

_Bad bad bad_, my mind whispers. The nameless, faceless shadow is following me again.

Why are we doing this, again?

We go inside and wander the halls for a while, meeting rats, spiders, cockroaches, and all sorts of creatures I'd rather not come into contact with. Mold lives in corners and the walls are slippery with I-don't-know-what.

Antonio said the morgue was in a basement, but the only staircase down has collapsed. We turn a corner and enter a long, tiled room with stalls.

A bathroom. How odd. You don't think of haunted hospitals having bathrooms. I look in a filthy mirror and study my reflection. I am slender, short, and freckled, with honey-gold hair and bright blue eyes. I study my nose with distaste. It's always had that bump and I've always hated it. My eyes flick towards my reflection's background.

_Something moves again._

I am suddenly angry, angrier than I've ever been in my entire life. Who is this person, this ghost, who thinks it's fun to torture me? And more importantly, why did I let it?

"That's it!" I snarl. "Show yerself so I can tear ya ta pieces! Come awn, ya demon!"

**Review, please? I'd love to know what people think and any comments or criticism are highly appreciated.**


	3. A Very Small Percentage

**A/N: By now you should know that I don't own Erik. However, Sophie, the Fujiwara clan, and the Long Island Housewives do belong to me, along with everything else you don't recognize. Many thanks to SafetyPinStitches and Hot4Gerry for reviews!  
**

"_Look, if you had one shot or one opportunity_

_To seize everything you ever wanted…_

_One moment…_

_Would you capture it?_

_Or just let it slip?"_

_-"Lose Yourself" by James "Eminem" Mathers III  
_

July

Sophie

I was relieved to step into Hinode Sushi. It was hotter than sin outside; yet yesterday was cool and drizzly. I had spent all last night and this morning with my family after accidentally leaving a copy of _The Communist Manifesto_ on the coffee table.

In April, my history teacher said he'd count it as two test grades if I read the book and wrote a report on how successful the world's various "communist" regimes were at implementing Marx's ideas. I wasn't flunking the course at the time, but an average in the low 80s- the result of three bad tests in two weeks- was as close to failing as I would tolerate.

I forgot to bring the book back, and it was lost in the sea of clutter that is my bedroom. It resurfaced yesterday when I was cleaning, and I stupidly carried it upstairs and put it in plain view so I wouldn't forget to give it to Devon, who was Mr. Mahon's neighbor. I don't know why I did it- I just forgot the rules of my life, I guess. I haven't been sleeping much lately, which makes me more absentminded than usual.

Of course, my parents think I'm being indoctrinated. It can never be as simple as an extra-credit assignment. It's always a vast leftist conspiracy against freedom and the American Way (whatever that is). My teachers, textbooks, and curriculum are designed to turn me into a soulless liberal drone.

The consequence of my debauchery was a long, stern, and never-ending talk about not believing everything you hear and some other things that I missed because I wasn't paying attention. I'm surprised it was only that, actually. I've been punished worse for lesser offenses.

That kind of thing is why I work here. It's very safe to assume that my parents will never, ever come to a restaurant specializing in raw fish. There's a hibachi too, but I'm not telling them that.

I'm technically not supposed to have this job. I had never even been inside this place until I started collecting job applications in May. It was mid-afternoon and Kimie- the owner's granddaughter and my fellow _uētoresu_- was nodding off at the hostess stand. She started when I asked her for an application, rummaged around a bit, and said that she couldn't find them but would take my name and phone number. Kimie's duties do not normally include being a hostess, so she couldn't be blamed for not knowing. "You can waitress?" she asked. "We're short on waiters."

"Yes," I told her. I had no idea that she was really asking if I had experience. This isn't my first job, but I didn't learn much stocking shelves at the pharmacy.

Leah explained it to me later and I called Hinode Sushi to beg for forgiveness. But Mr. Fujiwara, Kimie's uncle, was very gracious. "Oh, it doesn't matter," he said. "You'll learn on the job." I then gushed thanks and said the obligatory "I won't let ya down, sir," even though we both knew I would make dozens of mistakes. Like bumping into Rina and sending three bowls of miso soup to the floor a week later.

My uniform here is much nicer than my old one. It comprises of soft black slacks and a colorful cotton jacket that changes weekly; it's currently emerald green with sunflowers. Providing a shirt for underneath the jacket is my responsibility- plain black or white ("And nothing obscene writen on it!" according to Mr. Fujiwara).

It was difficult at first, remembering that the _amaebi_ goes to table seven and the just plain _ebi _goes to table twelve. It was even harder to balance four plates on one tray. But I've gotten better and now I even kind of like it. It's -what do they say? -challenging.

The _other _Mr. Fujiwara, Kimie's father, leans against the wall gazing sulkily at the koi pond. One slow evening, the oldest Mr. Fujiwara, the owner, told Kimie and me why he didn't give his older son a managerial position. "Akira has no willpower," he said. The first Fujiwara, as I called him, was short, bald, and frail-looking. Jirou was the second Fujiwara, and Akira was the third. "He's very smart, but also very lazy. Jirou isn't as clever, but he works hard." This was not news to Kimie, who had been covering for her father when we first met.

"Your boyfriend's here," announces the third Fujiwara. I discreetly rolled my eyes.

My 'boyfriend' is at least fifteen years older than me and only got the title because I sometimes sit down and talk with him while I'm on break. We've had some good discussions. I've never met anyone who knows so much about, well, _everything_.

The first time I tried to talk to him- I try to chat with all my customers, because people like that and tend to give bigger tips when you do things they like- he was very stiff and impolite. I know I was being far too sensitive when I took that so personally, but I was angry. When he came in again, I was determined to not be blown off again. Before I took his order, I gestured to some college kids sitting across the room; one was wearing a T-shirt with Che Guevara on it. "_El Che _is rollin' in 'is grave," I said.

He smirked, thus starting our peculiar relationship. "They should hope that necromancy doesn't become possible in the near future_,"_ he agreed. He now comes every Sunday for tea. And the quiet, maybe. Afternoons tend to be slow.

The most unique feature of my 'boyfriend' is his mask. Made of black leather, it covers his entire face. Only his mouth and chin show. His lips are strangely thin and slightly lumpy- not the way lips should be at all- and his skin is jaundiced. Perhaps he's ill.

No one says anything, of course, because that would mean losing a regular customer. The third Fujiwara occasionally makes a snide comment, but Kimie usually shushes him.

He sits as table nine, as he does every week. "Hiya, sir," I say. "Green tea as usual, I s'pose?

"Yes, _coquine_." We've been talking for weeks but haven't exchanged names, and my uniform doesn't have a nametag. He is Sir and I am Coquine. Sir usually wears a suit, but the heat has forced him to abandon it for dark jeans and a white work shirt. Long-sleeved, of course, but his hands still show. They are an artist's hands, large, though quite thin and bony.

I deliver his tea and question, "D'ya think Heaven's boring?"

"I don't believe in Heaven." He talks smoothly, like a reporter.

His voice…I've never heard another like it. It's beautiful. A warm, powerful tenor. It's one of the reasons I talk to him.

"For the sake-a argument, pretend ya do."

"Oh, fine…now, why would Heaven be boring? Isn't it supposed to be perfect?"

"That's the point. Perfect is boring. I mean, sure, it's nice at first, but there'd be nothin' ta do. Ya get sick of harp playin' 'n' angelic choir singin'."

There's something about Sir, something that I've seen occasionally in my grandfather and uncle, and very rarely in some of my teachers. He's been places and done things. He's a _gentleman_.

The main reason why I talk to him is that he makes the shadow leave. Ever since my –for lack of another word- adventure in Maddox, the shadow has followed me. I'll be doing something completely normal, like brushing Orry or talking to Leah, and suddenly the shadow's there, watching.

I've tried telling myself that it's ridiculous, that there's no such thing as ghosts and demons. That I'm educated, self-educated, which is better than just school-education. That I shouldn't believe in these things like the little hick that I am.

But how can't I? Myths and superstition have always lurked in the corners of my life. Stories, dreams, and things that might've happened and might've not blend into a tapestry of childish imagining and truth: foxes that disappear like smoke, a housecat that grew into a panther one minute and shrank the next, snow ladies that can kill you with one frigid breath, bloody daggers reflected in creeks.

"Perhaps all the activities Heaven offers are eternally satisfying."

"Well, maybe. But all the intrestin' people are in Hell, too. Like Shakespeare 'n' Mozart 'n' Kurt Cobain." The second Fujiwara signals to me from the kitchen doorway. "Gotta go."

The second Fujiwara points me to a table of girls with bleached blonde hair, fake tans, and manicured nails. I have a name for this type of girl: Long Island Housewives, because that's exactly what they'll be someday. They have cars and credit cards. They will go to the school Daddy donated a library to, where they will meet rich, handsome doctors and lawyers. They will get married and live in Southampton with their hubbies and children named Aiden, Jaden, Braeden, and Haydyn. They will get weekly facials and massages. They will have done nothing to deserve any of this.

I admit that I am jealous.

My prospects are not looking good right now. I am smart, but not smart enough for a scholarship. I am talented, but, again, not good enough for it to matter. In short, I am remarkable, but not remarkable enough. Students who know six languages and can play three instruments get scholarships, not losers who have been making half-assed attempts to learn French and bombed their violin recitals. I didn't practice enough. I never do, and I had exams the same week…

Have you ever known something, deep down in your bones?

I have known for a very long time now how my relationship with my parents would end. I think I was twelve or so when I first started daydreaming about my departure. Sometimes I had done something wrong. Sometimes I had done nothing. Sometimes I left angrily, with shouts and triumphant curses. Sometimes I left graciously, shaming them with my decorum. And other times I left with my own head lowered in humiliation and grief.

I don't know why I started dreaming this. I did not hate my parents back then; in fact, I loved them very much. It was only when I started thinking my own thoughts that my love became painful, like hugging a rosebush.

For years, I only knew this in my mind- I could not feel it. But when I turned seventeen in May, I thought, _This is my last year_, and it was true. I knew that when I had my next birthday, I would no longer be on speaking terms with my family.

Perhaps I can prevent this. Perhaps I can't. But it doesn't matter, because I don't really want to.

I take the Housewives' orders; one of them is quite disappointed that we don't offer vegan sushi. I try steering her in the direction of noodles, but she's not buying it.

"Try the _kitsune udon_," I coax.

She eyes me skeptically, as if I'm offering her sea urchins. Which I'm not. That's in another section of the menu. "What's in it?" A first-timer, obviously.

"Very simple," I say. "It's just noodles in a soy sauce broth with fried tofu."

She agrees, thank God. I scurry to Yasu, the sushi chef, and then to Masashi, the everything-else chef. I return to Sir.

He gestures to the seat opposite him. "Sit down, _coquine_."

I glance around nervously for the second and third Fujiwaras. Either will take the opportunity to scold me for being lazy even though there really isn't much to do. The first Fujiwara takes Sundays off, but would have let me sit down for a few minutes with Sir anyway.

"Firstly, I have decided that your argument is valid. Everyone worth knowing is in Hell, assuming there is such a place."

"Well, not everyone," I say. "I was exaggeratin' before. There are _some _intrestin' people in Heaven, I bet."

He holds up a hand to shush me.

"This is not about that."

"Oh," I counter dumbly, then remember my manners. "Sorry."

"How much is your salary?"

"Oh, ya don't need ta worry about me. I'm fine, sir, really." The polite way to say, _None of your business_.

"Tell me." He is losing patience fast and there's an edge to his voice.

"Seven-fifty per hour plus tips." It's a good living for someone who spends money maybe once a month.

"What would you say if I said you could earn more than ten times that while working fewer hours?"

"I'd say it's probably illegal."

"It's not."

I give him a look that says, _Yeah, right_.

"No, really, it isn't," he insists.

Sir outlines his plan to me, a plan that he says has been accepted by the Powers That Be.

We will be ghosts for Giordano's project, a publicity stunt. Well, I wouldn't be a ghost, exactly. I would be his assistant, his apprentice, and perhaps I could be a ghost too if I worked hard enough. He and Matty had cooked it up together, though Sir said he it was mostly his idea.

Matthew Giordano would forever be known as Matty, the consequence of being the youngest son in a prominent family.

It will pay well, he says, for not that much work on my part, less than I'm doing here. And it will be easy for a clever girl like me.

"You'll be an actress," he entices. "Which you already are."

"What?" I manufacture a confused expression. "I'm afraid ya lost me there, sir."

"You understand perfectly, _coquine_."

The blood freezes in my veins. How does he know? How could he have seen through me so clearly? I've always thought I was good at lying, but suddenly I'm not so sure. Are my falsehoods this obvious to everyone? Do they only pretend to believe out of politeness, a desire to minimize trouble? My body becomes weak. I feel frightened, vulnerable.

"You will meet us somewhere…alone. It has to be a secret, you understand. There's no point in playing a ghoul if everyone knows you're not…don't worry that pretty head of yours, we'll pick somewhere public so you know you've got nothing to fear."

He puts two pieces of paper into my hand and tells me to put the tea on his tab. "Oh, and _coquine_? Invest in a good pocketknife." He leaves easily, as if we've been chatting about the weather and not as if he gave me the greatest chance I will ever have in life.

In my palm sits a scrap of looseleaf with an address written on it, and a fifty dollar bill. President Grant stares up at me. He looks tired.

oOo

For the rest of the afternoon, I ponder his offer. I see myself getting a nice- not fancy, but comfortable- apartment. It would be in a good section of town, so I wouldn't have to fear for my life when going out after dark. I see myself going to college. I see myself getting a job I actually want instead of becoming a hooker and dying of a heroin overdose.

I know my fears are irrational and that only happens to a very small percentage of people. But that percentage still exists: little rich girls that don't know anything about the world or life and slipped through the cracks. I could be in that percentage. The women that haunt Franklin Street at night were once like me. They once had nice clothes and good food.

I go to bed happy that night. As I snuggle under the covers, a worry plucks at my brow, gnawing at my bliss. I shoo it away.

I know the money will be stolen.

**A/N: Sophie's perspective is quite warped, isn't it? But that's the point, I suppose. She's been very sheltered and tends to assume the worst, among other things.**

**I'm terribly sorry if these chapters seem mostly like thinking (or in Erik's case, scheming). It gets more eventful, I swear.**


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